SET UP: Aubrey has returned to her private
bungalow, a bit tipsy and feeling slightly off-center after the party she’d
been at has abruptly ended because someone fell off the ope- concept infinity
dance floor. She’s noticed Diego…twice before.

***

I stretch my arms forward for balance and
zombie-walk in the darkness toward my bed, which is furthest from the door.

Alone.

Light of head, light in spirit.

Feeling reckless.

What I should be doing instead of the zombie
walk is the walk of shame. Where did the handsome hunk with Superman’s buns
disappear to? Maybe he’s in a bungalow close by? Do I want him to be in the
bungalow close by . . . within proximity to me and my lustful thoughts?

Do I dare seek him out?

My heart races at the naughty idea. Tomorrow.
When your head is clearer you can restrategize the perfect introduction.

I inhale deeply and move over to the side of
my bed. A wonderfully tantalizing hint of citrus fills in the air. The maids
must have sprayed some kind of orange-infused air freshener layered with a hint
of spice. Bringing the outdoors inside. And I plan to do the same because since
I can’t gaze at the stars, I’ve decided to dream about them.

Seconds pass as his eyes rake over me, down
to my toes and back up to my face.

All I can do is stare at him, falling into
stunned silence.

“You’ve got a beautiful body, chavita.”

Naked. I’m naked. I immediately fold an arm
across my chest and hang a hand in front of my crotch. “What are you doing in
here?” I murmur. Up close, he’s even more gorgeous. Breathtakingly so, with
lips plump for kissing and eyes the color of caramel.

Except they’re the opposite of sweet.

Naughty, come-play-with-me eyes.

Do I want to play? Be daring, be bold? I did
a few seconds ago . . .

“Did you have too much to drink? Wander into
the wrong bungalow?” I mean, pinch me, please. Things like this don’t happen to
me. My life is rather predictable. Boring, perhaps.

“I’m waiting for you.”

He pulls back the crisp white bedsheet.

Lord have mercy but do I need another shot.
Liquid courage. Drunken bravado.

Whatever. The sheet settles around his waist
and I’m treated to a mouthwatering display of muscled chest. My gaze drops
lower to the taut plains and valleys of his abs. And lower still . . . to the
prominent bulge highlighted against the thin cotton material.

He’s naked.

My lips part in surprise.

“That’s for you, chava.”

Oh my God. He knows exactly the effect he has
on me, doesn’t he?

“I don’t remember inviting you in.”

“Don’t you? I could have pushed your lovely
body up against that window, hiked up your skimpy red dress, and taken you
right there, in front of all those dancers.

And guess what, you’d have begged me to do
it.”

I blink.

There’s confidence and there’s arrogance.
Even if what he’s saying is true . . .

“You playing hard to get?” he murmurs. Yet
his tone is firm, no-nonsense.

He sighs, sitting up in bed and folding the
sheet back. With slow, smoothly deliberate movements, he slides out of bed to
stand before me.

But he looks past me to the painting on the
wall. “I’m not fucking you with un campo lleno de vacas watching us.” Moving
around me, he scoops up my red dress and tosses it at the picture. It snags on
the wooden frame, completely covering the pastoral scene.

“Much better,” he informs me, the tone of his
voice less of a rumble and more at a normal pitch.

“You’re awfully presumptuous.”

“Tell me to leave and I will.”

I bite my lip. Isn’t it so much easier with
him going all alpha on me?

“Sí?”

I pause in indecision. A feeling as foreign
to me as discovering a guy so hot, so far removed from my world, my realm of
possibility, is in my bed, where I want him to stay.

He gives me a lopsided grin.

A killer grin, with a little dimple that
causes butterflies to flutter about inside my stomach.

A seasoned seducer, who probably charms the
panties off every woman he meets. I mean, just look at him. Of course he does.

Yet it’s the hunger in his eyes as he rakes
his gaze over me that does me in. “You want me?” he asks as our eyes collide.

What is life truly without a few regrets? The
rational part of me understands this, that if I fuck this gorgeous man, that’s
what he’ll be. A regret. Yet the wild, recently liberated side of me, whispers,
Do it. Make him the best regret ever.

Michele Mannon
creates characters who are far from perfect; who are likely to be knee-deep in
trouble, heart-first in love and at wits’ end when life unexpectedly,
unequivocally turns to hell. Her debut series, Worth the Fight, received two
Romantic Times Magazine Top Picks.

Hit Man is the third book in her sexy romantic suspense series, Deadliest Lies
and features the most seductive “big-boom” mercenary of them all…Diego.

Michele lives in Pennsylvania but likes traveling to exotic places, including
the NJ shore. She’s fond of Skinny Cinnamon Dolce Lattes, quick-witted,
Irish-accented men, a good story, and lots and lots of laughter.